by Ellis, Tim
‘You fucking bastard,’ she shouted into freezing air. ‘You fucking bastard.’
She retraced her steps. The bastard was still lying face down in the snow. Picking up the jack again, she brought it down onto the back of his skull three more times. Then she turned him over and smashed it into his crotch until all that remained was a bloody mangled mess where his penis used to be.
After dragging the body into the undergrowth and hiding it, she scrubbed the blood that had splattered on her off with snow. She was aching with the cold, and her skin had turned blue.
Standing behind the car she put her clothes back on, and while she was doing it she noticed a green plastic container in the boot. It was then that she realised the enormity of what she had done – she had killed a man – killed the man who had raped her. The petrol in the green plastic container sloshed about as she walked over to the body. She unscrewed the cap and poured half the can of liquid over him, but then she had to search in his pocket for a light because she didn’t have one.
The smell of burning flesh made her gag. She returned to the car.
All her belongings were in the boot. She was beginning to warm up, and she was calm now. She’d buy a morning after pill from the chemist, and then that would be the end of it. As far she was concerned – it never happened. No one would ever know. She’d bury it so deep in her subconscious that not even a therapist with a Davy lamp and a pickaxe would be able to find it.
After she’d climbed in the driver’s seat and had adjusted the rear view mirror, she saw the throwaway mobile on the passenger seat. She picked it up, and when she interrogated it she saw that it only had one number in the phonebook – she pressed the call button.
‘Is there a problem?’ a man’s voice asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘There’s a big problem. I’m coming after you. And when I find you, I’m going to fucking kill you.’
She tossed the phone out of the window, and started the car.
Chapter Eleven
As they walked to the car Richards said, ‘Arnold Terminator!’
‘You’re not meant to poke fun at the public, Richards.’
‘I know.’
They both burst out laughing.
Denise Cannon-Ryder lived at number 7 Forest View in Chingford Green. It was called Forest View because if you stood on the waterbeds in the back bedrooms you could see The Hawk Wood to the left and Bury Wood to the right. And depending on where you lived in Forest View dictated which golf course you overlooked. There was the Chingford Golf Course, which was open to the great unwashed, or the Royal Epping Forest Golf Course, which was exclusively for the filthy rich and ran to twenty thousand pounds for annual membership. Number 7 overlooked the latter.
‘The Cannon-Ryder residence,’ the maid said when she opened the heavy oak door. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Is Mrs Cannon-Ryder in?’ Parish asked. He hated double-barrelled names – they took too long to say.
‘And who should I say is calling?’
He showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Parish and Constable Richards.’
‘Please be so good as to wait in the lobby. I will see if the lady of the house is available.’ They were left in a white and light grey decorated hallway. A large round occasional table stood before them with a full vase of fresh flowers and a bronze statue of a family of elephants. Beyond that the wide stairs snaked upwards.
‘You spoke funny then,’ Richards said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, hoity-toity.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re trying to talk proper because you’re in a posh house.’
‘I do talk proper, Richards. It’s you who talks funny.’
‘I do not. You talk like the Swedish Chef out of the Muppets.’ She began talking pidgin Swedish.
He laughed. ‘And you look and talk like Beaker.’
‘Oh, we’ve got on to looks now, have we? Well...’
‘Thank you for coming, Chief Constable,’ a woman in an evening gown and a diamond necklace said. ‘I might appear overdressed for four-thirty in the afternoon, but my husband and I have been invited to the Mayor’s residence for cocktails, and afterwards we’re going to the Royal Opera House to see La Sylphide by the Royal Ballet. What is it you want, I haven’t much time?’
‘You rang us about a missing woman, and I’m a Detective Inspector...’
‘Is that higher than a Chief Constable?’
‘About four ranks lower.’
‘Oh well, I suppose you’ll have to do.’
‘I’m very grateful... The missing woman, madam?’
‘I didn’t even know she was pregnant. That’s what you get when you permit these immigrants a measure of freedom. We live in a civilised society for goodness’ sake.’
‘The young lady’s name?’
‘Kasia or some such, and she was no lady. You’re probably talking to the wrong person. You need to talk to Sally... Sally Enright our housekeeper. I don’t like to have anything to do with the hired help. I leave that to Sally. Sally knows how I like things.’
‘So, this missing woman’s name is Kasia, and she was a servant?’
‘Cleaner.’ She shivered. ‘I hate that word, it’s so... dirty. Sally...’ she bawled over her shoulder.
The maid who had opened the front door to them appeared. ‘Yes m’lady?’
‘Tell these... police people about that Kasia woman. Take them into the conservatory... Well away from prying eyes.’ She turned back to Parish. ‘Sally will answer all your questions. I still have things to do if I’m to look my best for the Lord Mayor.’
‘Please follow me,’ Sally said.
Parish turned to thank Mrs Cannon-Ryder, but she was already half way up the stairs.
‘I think we’ve been dismissed,’ Richards said.
‘If I’d have been a Chief Constable... I can only imagine what might have been.’
‘Please follow me,’ Sally said, and led them through various lavish rooms containing expensive ornaments, furniture and artwork to a conservatory, which was twice the size of Parish’s house. ‘Please sit,’ she said pointing to four wicker chairs placed around a coffee table. ‘Would you care for refreshments?’
‘No, we’re fine, thanks,’ Parish said. ‘Can you tell us about Kasia?’
Sally remained standing. ‘Her name is Kasia Plaziuk, she’s from the Ukraine. She doesn’t speak a lot of English. Anyway, she came here illegally about a year ago, but she didn’t know she was pregnant until after she’d arrived. She begged me not to tell Mrs Cannon-Ryder, so I didn’t. About six weeks ago, she had the baby. I arranged for Kasia to come to the house to clean when Mrs Cannon-Ryder wasn’t here – it suited everyone.’
‘What about the baby?’ Richards asked.
‘Kasia brought little Ivan with her. He was as good as gold. Then she stopped coming. After a week, I went round to the flat where she was staying, but there was no one there. I haven’t seen her or the baby since.’
Parish gave a nod of his head to indicate Richards should take the lead.
‘And you didn’t report her missing earlier because she’s an illegal?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you know if she had any relatives or friends in England?’
‘I don’t think so. If she did, she never mentioned them. As far as I could tell, there was just her and little Ivan.’
‘I don’t suppose you have a picture of Kasia?’
‘No.’ She withdrew a photograph of a baby from the pocket of her apron. ‘All I have is this picture of little Ivan.’
Richards and Parish looked at the picture of a cute baby and then handed it back. It wasn’t the baby that they needed to identify.
‘If she was an illegal, where did she give birth to the baby?’
Sally shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t say.’
‘What about a birth certificate?’
‘Well, I imagine
little Ivan didn’t have one.’
Parish intervened. ‘Who employed Kasia?’
‘Mr Cannon-Ryder.’
‘Without papers?’
Sally shrugged again and looked away. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you any of this. I’ll lose my job if the Master finds out.’
‘I think you’re going to lose your job anyway. How was Kasia paid?’
‘In cash.’
‘I’m beginning to think we should pass this to the Border Agency,’ Parish said.
Richards gave him a look. ‘Can you give us Miss Plaziuk’s address?’
‘She had a flat above a Polish food store near Buckhurst Hill tube station. No.12 Back Lane.’
‘Thank you very much for being so helpful, Sally,’ Richards said touching her arm. ‘Is there anything else you think we should know?’
‘She was petrified that they were going to take little Ivan away from her.’
‘Who were “they”?’
‘She wouldn’t say.’
Parish stood up. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’ He passed her his card. ‘If you think of anything else that might help us, please ring.’
Sally ushered them back through the house to the front door.
‘Oh, one last question,’ Richards said as she was just about to step back out into the blustery wind and snow. ‘You don’t happen to know if Kasia had any tattoos, birthmarks, or other identifying marks on her body, do you?’
‘Last summer she took off her overall to go home, and I saw a tattoo of a flower on her right shoulder. It looked like a single red rose with a stem. Along the stem was a name – Karol.’
‘Is that a male or female name?’
‘I asked her who it was, but she just smiled at me.’
They ran to the car and climbed in.
‘See, if you’d had your way we would have passed it to the Border Agency, but this woman sounds like our second victim.’
‘I hate it when you’re right, Richards.’
She bounced up and down on the seat. ‘I love this job.’
‘I suppose you’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?’
‘You bet.’
Parish’s phone vibrated.
‘Parish.’
‘Sorry I wasn’t at the train station...’
‘Catherine! Where the hell are you? We thought...’
‘Yeah, sorry. I had some trouble with the man following me, and then I had something to do, but I’m nearly at St Margaret’s train station now. Can you come and pick me up?’
‘Through the small gate on the other side?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there this time.’
‘We’re on our way, and I’m glad you’re okay.’
‘Thanks.’
The call ended.
Richards stared at him.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go and get her.’
‘Where did she say she’s been?’
‘You can drive and listen, can’t you?’
‘Huh!’
***
After the phone call from Catherine Cox, The Right Honourable Lord Peter Elias had stared at the throwaway mobile phone for at least thirty minutes until he threw it against the wall of his chambers in the Royal Courts of Justice. What the hell had gone wrong? How had she managed to overpower that idiot he’d sent to take her? He shook his head in despair. Was there no one he could trust?
He dialled a number.
‘Twice in one day, Sir?’
‘Hello, Abbey.’ He told her what had happened.
There was silence from the other end.
‘I want you to find her and make her disappear.’
‘I’m a senior police officer.’
‘And I’m the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales. We do what we must to protect ourselves, Abbey.’
‘Why come to me?’
‘She’ll go running to Parish, and you know exactly where he is.’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘None. I am away in the country with my family from Friday for the holidays. I will return on 2nd January, and I expect you to inform me that the matter has been dealt with.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
***
Catherine pulled into the car park at St Margaret’s railway station for the second time that day. As she did so, there was a mass exodus of commuters from the station who were returning from their day’s efforts in London.
She waited until the car park was empty again, and then she removed her belongings from the boot of the car and put them on the ground. Next, she picked up the green plastic container, and emptied the remaining petrol into the boot and the inside of the car.
It took no time at all for the car to be engulfed in flames. She picked up her belongings and hurried to the station, and as she was crossing the metal footbridge there was a massive explosion.
Parish and Richards were waiting for her beyond the small gate. They both got out of the car and hugged her.
‘Thank God you’re all right, Catherine,’ Parish said. ‘What was that explosion?’
‘Fireworks I think,’ Catherine said. She felt safe in his arms.
He took her belongings and put them in the boot.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ Richards said.
They pulled out of the side road and headed towards Hoddesdon.
Parish glanced at her in the rear view mirror. ‘You had us both worried. We didn’t know what to do for the best. We thought P2 had got you.’
She sat back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was so tired. ‘No, I’m fine now.’
‘I was thinking that Catherine could stay at the Chief’s house,’ Parish said to Richards.
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ Richards said. ‘But that would mean moving her again, and she doesn’t have a car anymore. I’ve got a better idea. Dirty Nellie’s has rooms above the bar, why can’t Catherine just stay there? No one will think to look for her so close.’
‘Have I said how much I hate you being right?’
‘Sshhh, Catherine’s asleep.’
***
Dirty Nellie’s was a converted barn on Taverner’s Way at the back of Hoddesdon Police Station. There were usually live acts most nights. In the main bar, if you stayed in there for longer than two hours, your head throbbed like a giant’s heart ready to burst at the slightest touch, and your ears would bleed until all you could do was laugh.
Richards had booked a side room. Thankfully, it was soundproofed. They ordered drinks and a selection of sandwiches. In attendance were the Chief, Kowalski, Catherine, Parish and Richards.
Parish explained what the Chief was doing there.
Catherine looked at her warily.
‘If I may?’ the Chief said. ‘I’m sure you have information relating to P2, and I’m also sure it is circumstantial and based on speculation and innuendo. What you don’t have is evidence, and there is only one place to obtain that – the P2 Lodge.’
Of course,’ Parish said. ‘Why didn’t we think of that, Richards?’
She opened her mouth to respond, but the Chief stopped her with a raised hand. ‘The Worshipful Grandmaster is leaving London for the country on Friday. The Lodge will be closed for the holidays. I suggest that I take you down there so that you can obtain the evidence you need to destroy P2.’
‘What about... you know?’ Richards said.
‘We might also be able to discover who Parish’s parents were, but I make no promises. There are a substantial amount of records down there. If you’re serious about all of this then it could take you all weekend to find what you’re looking for.’
‘You keep saying “down there”, down where?’ Kowalski asked.
‘Of course, you don’t know. Only P2 members know that the Lodge is a secret hall over fifty feet below Lincoln House on High Holborn, close to the Royal Courts of Justice. The Mad Mole, Joseph Williamson – who was a Victorian philanthropist – built “The Banqueting Hall”, as it’s called, ov
er 200 years ago. He employed people to build miles of tunnels, rooms, and halls beneath London so that – in his own words – “They received a weekly wage and were thus enabled to enjoy the blessings of charity without the attendant curse of stifled self-respect”.
‘Why are you helping us?’ Catherine said.
‘It’s gone too far. When I first joined I never knew that I would be involved in any criminal activities – including murder. I am not that type of person, Miss Cox. I have made the decision to break free from the P2 yoke, but to do that they must be destroyed – whatever the consequences.’
Catherine glanced at Parish and Kowalski. ‘It could all be a trick – a trap.’
The Chief gave a wry smile. ‘It could, but what other choice do you have? You will need to trust me if you want to bring down P2. This is the only way to obtain evidence against them. And I’m sure you’re already aware, Miss Cox, that going after P2 is a dangerous occupation. There are far too many people with too much to lose to let you succeed.’
‘What do you mean?’ Parish said.
‘Have you told them what happened this afternoon, Miss Cox?’
They all turned their heads to stare at Catherine.
Catherine burst into tears.
Richards put an arm around Catherine’s shoulders and comforted her.
‘Elias sent a man to snatch her this afternoon, but she somehow managed to escape. I’ve been asked to sort the mess out over the holidays, which I am obviously not going to do. We have until 2nd January to destroy P2. After that it will be too late for me, for Catherine, and for you two. This is a one-time opportunity because you have a man on the inside – so to speak.’
‘What about the baby?’ Richards asked.
Parish’s brow furrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you have to be at the birth, and that could happen anytime from Friday onwards. Mum’s not going to be very happy if you’re fifty feet below London trying to find out who your parents were, instead of being with her at the birth of your child.’